


There's a Party in My Head (and No One Is Invited)

by linearoundmythoughts



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Hallucinations, Kristen is here to just attack people and have a good time, M/M, Nightmares, Psychological Horror, Psychosexual Horror, Psychosis, THAT was a fun tag to have to add to the database!, There's some Repression Shit going on with Oswald, except it's like...you're doing it to yourself buddy, happens pre 3x15, hence the pairing tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 06:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10871133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linearoundmythoughts/pseuds/linearoundmythoughts
Summary: Edward didn't plan on hijacking his already shaky mental state. Not originally.Pre 3x15.





	There's a Party in My Head (and No One Is Invited)

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic in _January_. What is free time? (It's nice to be finished!)
> 
> This can be seen as the accompanying piece to ["I Don't Need You to Agree (I Don't Need You to Agree with Me)"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9078100). It's been a long time coming, as I said, but now it feels right to have these co-exist.

The air was still. It smelled like old furniture and wood polish. Someone had dusted recently and cleaned out the fireplace. Edward stood in the center of the room, scoping out the details basked in midday light. He was missing his suit jacket, but still had on his vest, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

 

How was he back here? This felt too familiar…too familiar to be real. He’d been sitting in this room, sipping a cup of tea. He remembered that. What had he done next?

 

The sound of tell-tale thick-soled shoes padded across the carpet and Edward felt himself fall back into the recognizable pattern that was his normalcy only a few weeks ago. Turning to face his boss, Edward—

 

“Come here, Ed, and tell me what you think of my tie,” Kristen commanded, standing before the mirrors in one of Oswald’s suits, her hair the only thing not a perfect replica but choppy and spiked, _black,_ undone from its usual high ponytail.

 

Edward jumped back with the force of how hard he gasped.

 

Every detail was spot-on: the way she pointed her foot out, knee bent to compensate, tapping the toe of one spiked spectator shoe once, rocking on her heels for balance. Grabbing the jacket by either side under the buttons, she pulled the garment down firmly against her chest and tossed her head up as she inhaled, smiling at herself. She was wearing Ed's favorite tie—Oswald's tie—Ed's favorite of Oswald's ties—the purple one, with the swirls—he was most partial to it out of all of Oswald's ties—his mind _spun_ as he tried to process the sight before him, the pattern on the tie a mockery of his quickly rotating thoughts.

 

The jacket was the one Oswald wore on his last visit to see Edward when he was still imprisoned in Arkham, the one with the velvet collar and smooth lapels; the shirt, crisp as the day Oswald wore it to accept the mayorship; the vest a wide-lapelled, dark green one Oswald wore the day his mother's statue was defaced; the cufflinks, his most-regularly worn ones, gold embedded with violet sapphires, such a constant that Edward couldn't choose one definitive context for them.

 

"What?" she taunted. "Not to your tastes? You like familiar things! You're ridiculously predictable."

 

Reaching up for her glasses, Kristen gripped them around the lenses, slipped them off her face, and snapped them shut, then dropped into a side pocket without a glance. Instead of wearing lipstick and rouge, she had on no makeup, save for smudged black eyeliner rimming her lash-lines, complete with thick mascara.

 

She drummed her fingers against her chin, her arms crossed and eyes glittering in such a malicious way Edward's stomach reeled. He clenched a hand to his center, hoping it would stop.

 

Taking careful steps forward, Edward gave into the magnetic draw to be by the side of…

 

" _Oswald_ ," he breathed; a question, a plea.

 

"Oh, you're so _stupid_ , Eddie," Kristen snarled, her jaw jutted out, lower row of teeth bared. "Can't you follow along with anything?" His _own voice_ came out her mouth—or at least a version of it he knew and feared, had struggled against all his life. Whipping around to look into the mirrors, he saw the dark specter of his subconscious sneering the same way Kristen was. His expression bounced back into its typical malevolence and he clapped in glee when he heard Edward scream.

 

"You're such an odd man, Mr. Nygma," Kristen said, seizing Edward by the shoulders. He didn't want her to touch him; she dragged him around, now trapped facing her again. "We'll revisit this later, when you're not so…" she gestured vaguely, rolling her eyes. "Well. I shouldn't set unrealistic expectations, but I _do_ need you to see my point."

 

Edward flinched as she grinned at him, huffing air out her nose.

 

"Now run along! You've got a date," Kristen's voice still dripped with a snide disdain. Bringing her hand down, she patted his arm (more of a slap than anything) and pushed him away. " _Tick tock!_ " she chirped, clicking her tongue on each syllable. Edward couldn't tell who she was supposed to _be_ right now; as he wobbled on his feet, he didn't know which version of himself he was supposed to set up in his mind in order to respond. There was no fulcrum: did it matter if he could use the lever or not?

 

"I'm serious, Ed. Who am I to stand in they way of true love?" She took a lurching step forward, grabbed Edward by the shirt, fist balled up, and tossed him backwards into the mirrors.

 

Plunged into darkness, the fall felt _liquid_ , yet it crackled around him in shards. Edward woke up on the floor, his face pressed into the dusty carpet, his glasses bent at an angle away from his nose, feet still on the couch, legs extended upwards, his body only half participating in the fall he must have taken in his sleep.

 

***

 

Edward walked down the street, heading back from the courthouse. His plans were going to unfold _perfectly_ (of this, he was certain) and the effect of the nightmare from earlier had almost finished draining out of him. No one noticed him, or where he was heading—no one ever did.

 

Turning the corner, he slipped into the side entrance of Stocks and Bondage and navigated his way past a man who was patting down the pockets of his own coat, clearly looking for something. After a pointless interaction with the shop clerk, Edward spun on his heels, his hands balled into fists. Why did he have to _special order everything_ at this worthless store—how they did not have latex-coated rope when practically everything they sold was covered in the stuff was beyond Edward; he'd have to resort to using electrical wiring, which would be missing the effect he was going for….

 

Stepping swiftly, he made his way to another display, hoping to at least find _something_ suitable. Flicking through the hanging display of rigid, polyethylene blister clamshells containing various restraints, Edward hoped to find something that would spark some line of creativity for the next time he needed to torture someone.

 

(After everything that had transpired, it wasn't as if he would ever be buying items such as these in the context of some odd experimentation or stage in a relationship. He likely would never love or date again.)

 

"Impossible to pick the perfect one, isn't it?" a man off to Edward's right commented.

 

"Well, it all depends on the intended usage and execution," Ed drawled back, not bothering to look at whoever spoke to him until he heard the man edge closer. How _dare_ he. As if Edward had time to waste speaking to anyone who was beneath him, not part of his _plans_. Whipping his head around, Edward felt the room spin as he shrieked.

 

Standing before him was a short man with blond hair. Edward quickly cataloged details. Black peacoat, black shirt, black scarf, black leather gloves. The man's hair was swept to the side in a traditional, yet sleek style. His nose was crooked, face youthful yet wrinkled, face dusted in light freckles, expression soft, eyes bright.

 

The instant recognition that this wasn't real, wasn't _happening_ was less distressing than the betrayal of his mind immediately flooding him with relief at seeing that face again. That wasn't right. Edward hadn't done all of what he'd forced himself through to have his mind _do this to him._

 

" _Oswald_ ," Edward hissed, tightening a fist.

 

"Oh, no, I'm not—my name is—" he replied, holding a conciliatory hand in Edward's direction.

 

"Stop it!" Edward roared, swatting him away.

 

The fake Oswald cringed, glared at him, and then cracked into delusional, manic laughter. Oswald's penchant for rapid-fire emotional shifts was still as prevalent as Edward remembered. The fact that he could interpret them instantly only served to remind him that his own mind was producing this—a mental clarity he'd lacked when Kristen had taunted him in Oswald's clothing.

 

"Oh, this _was_ fun. Most certainly worth it!" Blond-Oswald said through gritted teeth, looking up at the ceiling with a demented smile on his face.

 

"Why are you doing this!" Edward wanted to strike out, wanted to grab Oswald by the tie again and throttle him.

 

More than anything, he wanted Oswald to look like himself again, and to have something other than rage and regret clashing as they both coursed through his own veins.

 

"You should see the look on your face right now," Oswald giggled, twisting his head and lifting himself up onto tiptoes, his face mere inches from Edward's. "Do you believe in _fate_ , Nygma? I do. I can't help myself! Some things are just _meant to be,"_ he cooed, sardonic and sadistic.

 

Edward caught Oswald's wrist too late. With Oswald's fingers already wrapped around Edward's neck, he could do nothing but cling, driving his fingernails into Oswald's skin as Oswald rendered him to his knees, crushing his throat. The world went dark as Edward heard, then _felt_ the crunch: he gasped and nothing happened.

 

Kneeling in front of a puddle of his own vomit, Edward tried to pull himself back up. He'd gotten some of the sick on the couch; he was disgusted with himself. Was it still the same day? It was turning dark out. His legs were useless, sprawled somewhere behind him. Did he finish falling off the couch when he blacked out again? Shaking, he retched again but nothing happened. His glasses weren't on his face and he couldn't make himself care, crawling far away from the mess to let himself sink down and rest his head against the hardwood floor. The wood was cool against his cheek and he had no choice but to let himself slide back into unconsciousness.

 

***

 

Edward watched himself play the piano, wearing a shirt he remembered having on a year ago. Green light flicked across the keys, so worn down they looked smokey gray instead of ivory white. Kristen stood to the left of his former self, still black-haired and in that familiar suit. Oswald stood on the other side of the copy of Edward, blond and dressed the same as before, an imitation of Isabella.

 

 _I love the chase, till the minute I win it~_ Kristen sang, smiling distantly.

 

 _A beautiful face, till there's love for me in it~_ Oswald crooned, waving his shoulders along to the beat.

 

Continuing their sick duet, the both of them hummed while plaid-wearing Edward played on.

 

_Give me your heart~_

 

Kristen looked at Oswald.

 

_And baby, I'll bill it~_

 

He grinned at her, tipping his head forward.

 

At the same time, they lunged at the version of himself playing the piano. Oswald grabbed his shoulders and Kristen clasped his face, a hand on either cheek.

 

in unison, they belted out _'Cause I always kill the things I love!_ and Kristen snapped the other Edward's neck. His lifeless body tipped backwards but Oswald grabbed him fast by the back of the head and slammed his head into the piano, the keys ringing out in a dull, discordant thud.

 

Across the room, Edward heard clapping, and turned around, faced with his glasses-less other self. That version of himself grinned, rubbing his hands together.

 

Kristen and Oswald walked towards and past real Edward, ignoring him completely.

 

 _Some folk would die for the sake of another~_ Oswald whispered.

 

 _Lay down their life for their sisters and brothers~_ Kristen trilled.

 

"For me, sacrifice is something quite other," his dark self sang-spoke the words, snarling. "'Cause I love to kill the things I love," he finished, standing still and resolute.

 

Oswald whipped a knife out from his pocket and flicked it open as he murmured the lyrics.

 

 _The look in your eyes will turn to surprise, as you feel the pain and you realize_ ~

 

He stabbed the copy of Edward's subconscious over and over, fast and brutally. As he sank to the ground, Kristen extended a hand to Oswald. He handed the knife over, and she mimed Oswald's former move, grabbing the dying Edward by the hair.

 

_The one hurting you is somebody who once said "I love you"~_

 

She tipped his head back and slit his throat open, and his body crashed to the floor in a heap.

 

Edward was frozen in place, frantic internally but trembling and motionless in body. Kristen advanced on him, dropping the knife behind her. She picked his hands up and put them on her waist. _Somebody we'll pay back all we've borrowed~_ she intoned, pressing close into him.

 

"No, Kristen, stop, I don't want to touch you," Edward begged, his hands shaking. "I don't want to—"

 

He'd lost track of Oswald until he felt firm hands slide down his back. _What we loved today, we'll lose tomorrow~_ Oswald warbled, pressing a kiss between Edward's shoulder blades.

 

"Don't _touch me_ ," he hissed, tears welling in his eyes. He tried to get out of both of their embraces, but he was trapped.

 

 _But I won't need to wait for my share of sorrow~_ they caroled in tandem. _Because I always kill the things I love._

 

Edward angled his head up, closing his eyes, trying still to wiggle away.

 

"You need to pay attention," Kristen demanded, running his hands along the suit. "You need to come to a realization."

 

"We're _you_ , Ed," Oswald explained, grinding against his back. Edward gasped and arched into it, the sensation unexpected. "We're in your head. You're doing this to _yourself_."

 

Feeling a panic attack rising, Edward finally looked down, eyes widening as he saw what had transformed. Kristen was blue-skinned, her eyes cloudy, irises milky. She looked like herself again except her throat was bruised, her lips purple and shriveled. Edward screamed, spinning away only to be met with the sight of Oswald sopping wet, water falling from his dark hair and clothes into a puddle of blood on the floor, a hand pressed into his abdomen. He looked down at his own injury, back up at Edward; the sound of Kristen howling insults at him rang in his ears, as she hit him in the head, as Oswald stared at Edward in that same horrible look of shock seared into his memory, as Ed felt _himself_ die, too, and—

  
***

 

The room was dark when Edward felt himself come back into place. Hands—his own, thank God—flew to his neck, trying to pull his tie off, get his too-tight collar away from his neck, still panic-stricken. He must've climbed back on the couch at some point; the mess of sick was gone, his glasses back on his face. Gasping in terror, the cold sweat clinging to his skin froze to him. Tears pricked at his eyes and he rubbed his fingernail across his thumb, trying to focus on a small detail that would let him know he was back in reality.

 

"Oh, _Ed_ ," Oswald chided, but with a series of giggles. Edward whipped around, noticing for the first time that Oswald was seated on the couch next to him. Despite the dark, he could _see_ him. This time, he wasn't sopping wet; he looked refined and freshly groomed, every misplaced chunk of choppy hair carefully styled. He rested his hands on his knees, his legs spread in a wide stance, feet planted with his heels against the couch. His purple tie was tucked into his shirt; the red dots nothing like blood—this time, just decorations.

 

"You're _sick_ ," Kristen hissed, and Edward almost fell off the couch when he realized she was seated on the other side of him. Red hair loose in waves framed her face as she clutched her hands in her lap, her legs crossed and extended out from under her green bare-shouldered dress, the glitter in the fabric dull in the absence of light. She managed to look _down_ at him somehow, from the _side_ of her glasses. Her neck was a normal color; her eyes healthy and piercing.

 

"Where is he?" Edward asked, looking around for the _other_ hallucination-copy he was used to, or even the new one.

 

"He's not here anymore, Ed," Oswald condescended, his lips curling.

 

"It's only us," Kristen sneered, looking at her nails.

 

"It's always only been _you,_ " Oswald explained, his eyes boring into Edward.

 

Edward kept spinning back and forth between them as they spoke, making his head whirl ever worse than before.

 

"Just you, Edward. And now all you've got—" Kristen grinned, rubbing her red lipstick between her lips before she spoke again, "is _us_. Your demons—"

 

"And your ghosts," Oswald smiled facetiously, eyes flicking up at the ceiling with a tilt of his head.

 

Kristen lunged at him, blood-red polish flashing, her nails barred. "If you don’t let go of me, I will make you play this game forever, and _you will never win_."

 

Edward heard Oswald click his tongue and _tsk'd_ , arching into Edward possessively. "And if you try to leave me behind, you will fail. You are _nothing_ without me. There's no _you_ without _me_."

 

Edward ripped his glasses off his face to press the heels of his palms into his eyes, pushing so hard the world went red behind his eyelids. He howled, curling into a ball, so much like when he was a child, praying to someone he knew wasn't listening that it might _stop_.

 

It never worked.

 

When he finally tried looking on reality once more, he was alone, completely alone, without even a single light from inside the room or through the windows to catch his eye.

 

The pill bottle rolled off the coffee table in front of him and hit the toe of his socks. He quickly counted the number of tablets left by touch. That explained it. He’d been taking them to…to feel _nothing_ for a little bit, but he hadn’t planned on his mind turning on him quite like that. It was different from the other times he’d hallucinated under stress, in the mirror, or when he’d disassociated.

 

Looking around the manor, his eye caught the portrait of Oswald, only recognizable in the absence of light by its frame. Staring into the face he couldn’t forget, could barely make out in the dark, he wished…he wished—

 

Edward wished he could ask the real version of his best friend for advice, for…for anything he’d be willing to do for him.

 

He scooped the pills back up, swearing to put on a record, _any record_ , to drown out the song stuck in his head, as soon as he could stand, could move again without collapsing again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, I started this in January. Do you know how _delighted_ I was that there was a psychosexual horror _musical_ scene in _canon_? I still wanted to share the version I came up with so long ago. 
> 
> The song is ["(I Always Kill) The Things I Love"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZX14TMvBGFw) by The Real Tuesday Weld (most famously covered by Claudia Brücken). 
> 
> It's a tradition among my friends to #BreakEd and I'm glad to finally be publicly joining the effort. Welcome to my public debut of my more ah, intense fics, by the way. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
